《Cradlefall》
Prologue
Prologue
The Far Future. 412 Interstellar Era. The Colonial Planet of Parnaxxus.
Death.
A powerful word.
An inescapable truth.
It comes for all, leaving behind only ashes, fragments, fading memories¡ªor the echoes of one''s choices.
But it isn''t you lying still beneath the flag. Not yet.
It''s Trysha Corson.
Once a firebrand pilot with limitless potential and fierce devotion to her Mother-World. Now, only fragments remain, draped in the colors she died for.
The afternoon sun is smothered behind a heavy curtain of clouds. Nature, usually brimming with sound, holds its breath. The bugles blare. Salutes are rendered. Tears are shed. But like the silent drizzle that melts into the moist Earth, you drink up your grief, forbidding it to escape.
She wouldn''t have wanted your tears.
She wouldn''t have wanted her death to be in vain.
Her sacrifice¡ªand those of every brave soul in the resistance¡ªwas for a cause worth dying for. A hope worth bleeding for. A freedom they might never see, but one they believed in.
Even the birds are silent. The wind howls with a strange desperation, mourning lives lost in the void of war. The sky is dark. The mood, even darker.
The only sound is the muffled sobbing of the ones left behind: wives without husbands, parents without children, comrades without comrades.
You never expected this. Not so soon. Not like this.
Could you have?
A week earlier
Parnaxxus. The Colonial Planet. Before the Funeral.
"No, but I don''t get it," you say, walking beside her to the V-Toll pickup point. "Even with all that high-tech Armature you fly into battle with¡ªand all the so-called safety protocols¡ªthere''s still way too much strain on the human body. I did the math. The speed, the inertia near orbit¡ªit''s insane. How do you even manage?"
"Good thing the R&D cocktail that amps up my reflexes is top secret. Wouldn''t want a junkie like you getting your hands on it," she quips, nudging you playfully in the ribs.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
You scoff. "Can''t say for sure. But I know nothing beats my bear hugs."
"That sounded so wrong."
You frown. "Seriously?"
"Sheesh, little brother," she laughs. "I love messing with you."
She stops in front of the single-seated V-Toll, sleek and humming with idle power. The cockpit opens. She turns to you, arms wide.
You don''t need an invitation.
You embrace¡ªdeep, tight, neither of you willing to be the first to let go. When she finally pulls back, she grips your shoulders, mock-serious.
"I expect you to behave while I''m gone. No stupidity. Clear?"
"Aye aye, Captain!" you reply, saluting with a pirate''s lisp and a ridiculous grin. "Hoist the sails and call me Captain Bushy Beard!"
"More like Captain Balding Head," she snorts, then softens. Her warm brown eyes study your face with that quiet, unconditional love only an older sister could give.
V-Toll will be departing in T-minus 2 minutes. Please prepare for departure, intones the automated voice¡ªmonotone and grating.
"Centuries of tech advancements, space travel, orbital combat, wormholes¡ªand this is still the voice we''re stuck with?" you groan.
"Centuries of evolution... and we still have people like you," she fires back.
Before you can respond, she cups your cheeks and kisses your forehead like she always has¡ªsince you were nothing more than a child in her arms.
"I''ll miss you, Teeril."
"I won''t miss you," you say, voice cracking slightly. "Because I know you''ll dominate out there. You''ll make those Impies regret ever crossing us. And you''ll be back before I even notice. I love you. More than anything."
"I love you too, little brother." Her voice nearly falters.
T-minus 1 minute. Please prepare for departure.
She ruffles your hair, hugs you one final time, and steps into the cockpit.
You step back, give her your stiffest salute¡ªthen break into a grin.
She smiles through the glass dome, pressing her palm against it. You lift your hand to meet hers.
"WHERE''S YOUR GEAR?" you shout over the whirring engines.
"ALL I PACKED WAS A TOOTHBRUSH!" she yells back. "I am the total package!"
She ends with that familiar goofy wink.
You shake your head, half-laughing, half-tearing up, watching her rise into the sky. The V-Toll hums louder. You swear you feel a tear trail down your cheek as she vanishes into the horizon.
Who could have known this was the last time you''d see her?
Sure, every departure carried that risk. But you never believed it. You couldn''t.
You never thought that would be the last time you held her.
The last time you felt her warmth.
The last time you saw those beautiful brown eyes.
The last time you heard her voice.
The last time her scent lingered on your shirt.
The last time you got a mouthful of her hair during a hug.
The final thread of love, woven into that parting moment¡ªunaware it was the last.
The Fire She Left Behind
The Fire She Left Behind
Present Day. Funeral Ceremony. 412 Interstellar Era. Parnaxxus.
You never could''ve known.
That''s the part that stings the most. If you had, maybe you would''ve begged her not to go. Maybe you''d have stolen one more moment¡ªone more smile, one more laugh. Maybe that would''ve been enough.
If only there hadn''t been an emergency broadcast that day.
If only the Imperial Strike Ships hadn''t broken into the Andronian Sector.
If only there hadn''t been a war.
So many "ifs." So many ways this could''ve ended differently.
But now, she no longer walks beside you.
She died fighting for her people. For the cause she believed in. For the one she loved ¡ª you.
"There is glory in battle, and pride in victory. And I am here to have both. We will free our people from the clutches of this Imperial Monarchy. We will succeed. We will win. Or we''ll die trying. But we will not go down without a fight."
What she didn''t tell you ¡ª couldn''t tell you ¡ª was the cost. The loss. That with war comes silence: of laughter, of warmth, of those irreplaceable connections. A parent''s embrace. A lover''s whisper. A child''s smile that could light a world. Gone. Ashes, blown across the stars. Buried with the very conscience that once made us hesitate before turning on one another.
And now, you ask:
What was this war even for?
Was it really about power? Resources? Pride masked as patriotism? What was the cost for something no one could even define anymore?
Was there ever a reason big enough to justify this pain?
Enough to stop the sobs of a mother who will never hold her child again?
To dry the tears of a husband left behind?
To heal the heart of a brother who lost the only person he ever looked up to?
Trysha was that person. She was your sister. The person who gave you unconditional love. The only one who made this broken galaxy feel like home.
Today, war taught you a lesson. One you''d heard before ¡ª in history books, in veteran stories, in quiet warnings from old souls ¡ª but never truly understood. Death is a teacher, and it speaks in silence. War is written by the victors. But the price of that ink is blood. It costs pieces of your soul.
"Get ready now. The speech is almost over. Be prepared to receive the posthumous Medal of Valor and Honor," says the soldier beside you. His voice is flat. Professional. But you see the pain in his eyes. The same pain you carry. The same loss.
Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!
The Squadron Co-Ordinator for the Andronian Sector ¡ª high-ranking, well-decorated, composed ¡ª stands before the gathered crowd. Her voice cuts through the still air like a blade, firm but reverent.
"This week, we lost many of our bravest to the hands of war. Daughters. Sons. Heroes.
On the 21st of the Angrodian Month, 412 IE, Trysha Corson, leader and Central Tank Unit of the Resekith Squadron, showed unshakable courage.
She led her team ¡ª five loyal souls ¡ª on a direct assault against the Imperial Strike Ship. Her keen mind and daring tactics dismantled the escort formation.
They knew it was a suicide run. And they chose it anyway."
A pause. The Co-Ordinator clenches her jaw, steadying herself. She''s done this before ¡ª delivered eulogies, mourned the fallen ¡ª but it never gets easier. And it shouldn''t.
"Under constant enemy fire, they charged through the heart of battle. It was a suicide run. They knew it. When the moment came to lay down their lives for something greater, they didn''t flinch. They overloaded their Armature''s matter/antimatter core. Sparked a chain reaction. The explosion was cataclysmic. It tore through the Imperial formation like righteous fury. The Resekith Squadron didn''t hesitate. They sacrificed themselves ¡ª fully knowing the cost ¡ª to give our troops a fighting chance."
You imagine her last seconds. Trysha. Standing tall. Focused. Terrified maybe ¡ª but unyielding. Did she think of you before she triggered the core? Did she cry? Did she smile?
Would you have had that kind of strength? That belief in a cause greater than yourself?
You inhale sharply, pushing the thoughts away, forcing yourself back into the moment.
"Their actions turned the tide. The Strike Ship was destroyed. The Imperials were forced to retreat.
Trysha Corson, and the Resekith Squadron ¡ª they are the reason we are still breathing.
They are the embodiment of valor. Their sacrifice inspires us to keep fighting.
To believe.
And I promise you all ¡ª their deaths will not be in vain. They brought us one step closer to peace."
She pauses again, this time looking straight at you.
"May I now request Teeril Corson to join me on the podium and receive the medal, on behalf of his sister."
You try to stand.
Your legs don''t respond.
Your vision blurs. Your palms are soaked in sweat. You tremble, the weight of her absence pinning you down.
Then ¡ª somehow ¡ª you rise. The soldier beside you offers his arm, and you take it like a lifeline.
This can''t be real.
You''re not here to accept a medal. You''re here because half your soul was torn away in a fireball above a dead moon.
As you walk toward the podium, every step feels heavier than the last.
One thought circles in your head like a prayer:
"What if I don''t want this cause? What if I just want her back?"
You stop before the Co-Ordinator. She places a hand on your shoulder ¡ª warm, human ¡ª and for a second, her eyes soften.
"Trysha Corson was one of the most loyal and fearless leaders I''ve ever commanded.
And she spoke of you often, Teeril.
She loved you. She was proud of you.
And you are not alone."
She offers the small, engraved box ¡ª the medal.
You stare down at it.
Then mumble, without lifting your eyes:
"I think I''ve found my cause."
"I''m sorry?" she asks.
You clench your fists. You don''t repeat it aloud.
You don''t need to.
"I couldn''t protect her. I couldn''t be there.
But I will carry her fire.
I will avenge her.
I will finish what she started."
You accept the medal. Bow your head. Step down from the stage.
There''s no more room for mourning in your chest ¡ª only resolve.
"I will keep her legacy alive."
The United Accord of Outer Systems is now your path.
This is the moment you were reborn.
This is where your story begins.
The story of the Titan Lead.
The one who ended the war. For good.
Sailing In A Sea Of Stars
Sailing In a Sea Of Stars
Seven Years Later ¨C 419, Interstellar Era
High Orbit, Plentaxian Delta | Andronian Sector
The void erupts¡ªnot with the soft shimmer of distant stars, but with the searing fury of Imperial plasma fire. A spear of molten light slashes across your path, missing by meters. Instinct kicks in. Your 20-foot armature rolls hard, thrusters howling, as the blast kisses your flank and vanishes into the black.
The AX-12 Energy Rifle thrums in your grip¡ªhot, angry, alive. You return fire in a triple burst, each bolt finding its mark. An Imperial cannon explodes in a chain of sparks, its mangled carcass spinning away like shrapnel confetti.
"Line''s breached," Mhysa 4 growls through the comm. Her armature drifts into view, scorched and staggering, light leaking through armour fractures. "This fight''s a corpse circling the drain. You alive in there?"
"Barely," you rasp, throat torn from a week of screaming and combat stims. Your chest heaves inside the cockpit, every breath tinged with ozone and pain. The Pilot''s Cocktail still clings to your tongue¡ªmetallic, bitter, unforgiving.
She hesitates. "Mhysa 3 and 5 are gone. No signal from our commander, Mhysa 1. It''s just us now."
You barely register her words. Outside, the remains of the Accord fleet scatter like dying embers, pursued by Imperial dreadnoughts whose hunger for ruin knows no pause. Below, Plentaxian Delta burns¡ªits oceans cloaked in ash, its sky a furnace of failed resistance. A grim sight as opposed to what the void would otherwise offer while sailing in a sea of stars.
Your HUD blares crimson:
SHIELDS: 20%
PLASMA SABERS: OFFLINE
HEAT SINK: CRITICAL
PRIMARY SYSTEMS FAILING
You''re running on vapor.
And then¡ªyou see it.
Three Imperial Leviathans ahead.
Their shields pulse like malevolent hearts, each beat a silent taunt across the void. Colossal silhouettes loom against the stars¡ªtitanic, angular, alive. Whole cities of metal and fire. Bristling with guns, with armor, with death. A fortress trio arrayed in perfect, merciless symmetry.
No way through.
No way out.
Unless¡ª
"Edreania," you breathe, fingers trembling as they flick open the comm line. "Shield disruptors. You still have them?"
Her voice slices through the static. Sharp. Alarmed. "Why? Teeril¡ªwhat the hell are you planning?"
"Just answer me. Do you have them?"
A silence, taut as wire.
Then, grudgingly: "Short-range. Never field-tested. Why?"
"Transfer them. Now."
Her hologram manifests in the cockpit, crackling through interference¡ªwar-weathered, pale, hollow-eyed. Blood mats one side of her face. Her ice-glass synthetic eyes drill into yours.
"Teeril, no." A whisper, then louder¡ª"No. If you''re doing what I think¡ªit''s not just suicide. It''s vaporization."
You meet her gaze. Say nothing. Just lift your chin.
She swears, viciously. But the disruptor codes appear on your HUD a second later. Her voice lowers¡ªshaken, fragile in a way that unnerves you more than any enemy ship ever has.
"You get one chance. Phase wrong, and their shields will atomize you. Nothing left. Not even memory."
You smile. It''s not brave. It''s defiant. Wounded. Tired.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
"Since when did you start mother-henning me, Edreania?"
"Since you got this goddamn martyr complex," she snaps, snatching the Energy Rifle from the metallic conjunction at your back. She locks it to her back, chambering a plasma rod with practised ease. "I''ll draw their fire. Move before I change my mind."
Then you launch.
Thrusters ignite like twin suns. The G-force slams your organs into your spine. The stars stretch into lines. Velocity becomes pain. Metal groans as your chassis redlines. Warning klaxons blare over the comms¡ªshrill, panicked, prophetic.
Fighters descend like carrion. A swarm of them. Sleek. Fast. Furious. Blue plasma screams past your cockpit, carving molten trails across your armature''s flanks. One clips your stabilizer.
SHIELDS: 12%... 9%... 6%... WARNING: CORE STABILITY BREACH IMMINENT.
"TEERIL!" Edreania''s voice detonates in your comms. Her armature tears through the interceptors behind you¡ªblade-arms flashing, a demonic silhouette in the flak storm. "MOVE, GODDAMN YOU!"
But you''re past hearing. Past fear. Past hope.
The disruptor spins in your grip, syncing to the Imperial shield harmonics. Numbers scroll faster than thought. Frequencies crackle across your HUD. You lean forward, jaw clenched. Every muscle trembling with focus. Sweat stings your eyes.
And ahead, the barrier looms.
A shimmering curtain of pure death. Electric. Alive. It pulses inwards and out, folding space around itself like a lung inhaling fire.
You scream¡ªraw, animal¡ªas you hurl the disruptor forward. A flash of light. Time fractures. The shield buckles¡ª
¡ªthen gives.
The field ripples like silver water, and your armature tears through it.
Metal bends. Screams. Superheated plating rips free from your arms. Joints shear like snapped tendons. Circuits overload in firework bursts. You''re being flayed alive inside a coffin of war steel.
OVERRIDE CODE 21: DETACH.
You slam the command.
The cockpit seals. Explosive bolts detonate.
You eject¡ªspinning backward, vision shuddering as your pod streaks away like a shell casing from a god''s revolver.
Below, your armature crashes into the dreadnought''s core.
A heartbeat later, the ship''s internal guns wake¡ªturrets swiveling toward your falling pod.
But Edreania is there.
She dives, claws extended, catching you mid-descent. Her boosters flare, throwing both of you into a brutal arc away from the dreadnought''s centerline.
"I''ve got you¡ª" she growls, strain cracking her voice. "But our shields are at two percent. This had better¡ª"
And then the world ends.
No sound. No warning.
Just light.
White, devouring, eternal.
The dreadnought detonates from within, as your armature''s unstable core reaches critical mass. Not a normal explosion. Not a fireball.
An implosion.
The ship folds inward¡ªscreaming metal crushed in on itself¡ªthen snaps, like a planet-sized egg cracking open. The antimatter suppressors fail in a single, synchronized shriek.
For one impossible second, the flagship of the Imperial fleet is a black hole of light.
Then it disappears.
And its death wakes the others.
The two flanking leviathans are caught in the feedback loop¡ªplasma shields overloaded by the core detonation. Their reactors flicker, then burst with sunfire brilliance. Hulls melt. Hangars collapse. Chain reactions ripple through their engines like cascading infernos.
Three leviathans.
Gone.
Nothing left but clouds of molten debris, drifting across the stars like ashes from a fallen god.
You float there in your pod¡ªshaking, heart trying to claw its way out of your chest. The glass is fogged from your breath. Your fingers are numb. Your ears are bleeding.
You had hoped.
You had prayed.
But you never truly believed.
Until now.
"Accord Forces¡ªadvance!" A voice screams over the comms, ragged with shock and wonder. "The Imperials are retreating! Repeat¡ªthey''re retreating!"
The channel fills with cheers. Static. Laughter. Sobs. Disbelief painted in noise.
Edreania''s armature wavers, then stabilizes¡ªyour pod still clutched in its battered grip. Her face flickers back into view, blood trickling from her brow. She''s laughing, broken and wild.
"You mad, insane bastard... You did it."
You turn towards her holographic face being projected on your screen. The fire from the explosions reflects in her synthetic, glass like irises, creating a shimmer you''d almost call tears, if her model allowed for it.
"No. We did it. It was just meant to buy us a few minutes. I didn''t think¡ª" you pause, exhaling slowly, "...that it would work."
A silence falls between you. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just real. The kind of silence that comes when you stare down death, and live.
Mhysa 4 lets out something between a laugh and a gasp. "You suicidal maniac. You just took down three Imperial warships with a half-broken mech and a glorified grenade."
You smirk, "Pilot cocktail must be kicking in again."
She gently adjusts her grip on the pod. "The rest of the Accord needs to hear about this. You just bought us more than time, Teeril. You gave us hope. And maybe... maybe a chance to strike back."
She draws your pod close, shielding it like a dying ember, while carrying you with renewed speed. "Let''s go home."
Home. The word lingers. Familiar. Hollow. As the stars stretch out in your escape vector, you feel the weight of fatigue finally take hold. You lean your head back, eyelids growing heavy.
"You''re not allowed to die after pulling off something like that, you hear me?" Mhysa 4 warns, playfully stern.
"Not today," you murmur, the fires of the fallen warships fading behind your retreating view, "...not today."
Seven years. Tens of thousands lost. Victories etched in ruin. There will be no parades. No peace.
You close your eyes.
The battle is over.
The war is forever.
Gross Insubordination
Gross Insubordination
Three Years Later - 422 Interstellar Era
High Orbit, Alanian Zeta - Alanian System
Your HUD pulses with red markers. Warnings, damage reports, trajectory maps-all overlapping like blood spatters on a glass pane. But you ignore it. You''ve done this too long to flinch at the chaos.
The Imperial mech in your crosshairs is burning from the inside. Antimatter breach. You ease off the throttles, watching it shake and convulse, like a dying animal trying to stand. The cockpit''s silence stretches, until the moment breaks.
Boom.
The enemy explodes in a flash that swallows two of its own.
You shift your weight slightly, skin-tight pilot suit responding with a hiss. Your UMP-Burnout-twelve metric tons of engineered fury-freezes in place just meters from the annihilated wreck.
Then you twist.
Your leg sweeps out and collides with the fractured remains, punting the carcass into the enemy''s second line. The impact doesn''t just rupture metal. It ruptures morale.
Allied units surge through the gap you''ve carved, plasma fire lancing through space like comets. It''s a slaughter. Efficient. Controlled.
High Command chose right when they sent you in first.
You are Teeril Corson after all, Titan Lead of the Accord. Hero of Plentaxian Delta. A name whispered across star systems. A symbol.
Seventy kills when they gave you this command.
Now: Seventy-three.
The vanguard collapses. What''s left of the enemy force retreats in disarray, scattering like ants under flame. Their precision gone. Their spirit shattered.
Behind you, the Accord fleet advances to press the offensive. Your job here is done. You glance at your tactical map, searching for your unit-your wolves.
But your sensors ping something else.
Three escape pods.
Faint energy signatures. Fleeing. Unarmed.
You raise your Burnout''s plasma cannons. The barrels rotate, heating up, whining like a beast caged too long. Your finger hovers over the trigger. One squeeze and they''re vapor.
But you don''t.
You exhale through clenched teeth and press your palm to your forehead. Sweat drips into your eyes.
"What the hell am I doing...?"
You could end them. No guilt. No witnesses. The war would call it mercy.
But your hand falls away. You lower the cannon. The pods vanish into enemy lines, safe-for now. In the cockpit''s silence, you find a sliver of peace. Not everyone''s lost their soul to this war. Not yet.
A voice, deep and sharp as a razor''s edge, slices through your reflection.
"Gonna just let ''em go, boss-man?"
Nicholas Draskoven''s face fills your comm-screen. Black-haired, predatory eyes, milk-tea skin, and sharp aristocratic features-he''s your second-in-command, a man whose skill may match your own, but whose bloodlust eclipses it.
"They fought well," you reply. "They''ve earned the right to live another day."
Nicholas exhales, a subtle eye-roll betraying his disagreement.
"I''ll take your word for it, sir."
A beat passes.
"See that you do."
You return your gaze to the war-torn void beyond. Fractured vessels. Burning wrecks. Flashes of light-plasma bolts and decaying thrusters. It''s beautiful. And grotesque.
War has sharpened your instincts to a knife''s edge. You scan the battlefield, identifying every friend, every threat, every pattern.
You fight for the UAOS - The United Accord of Outer Systems. Once a ragtag militia of idealists and defectors. Now a hammer poised over Earth''s imperial skull. The rebellion had long brewed. In humanity''s first steps into the stars, central authority was a necessity. But the Empire refused to adapt. As colonies flourished, Earth tightened its grip, silencing protests, stripping charters, and enforcing decree.
The Empire claims unity. But unity is a cage when only one-seventh of humanity controls the rest. The colonies had outgrown Earth''s leash-and Earth responded with fire and chains. You responded with war. Revolution became inevitable.
You joined after the rebellion found its teeth. Trysha had signed up when it was still a dream. But you? You joined when the Accord had evolved into a force to reckon with. And when you stood alone at Plentaxian Delta-when you faced the enemy without flinching-that''s when they started seeing you as more than Trysha''s shadow.
A medal. A promotion. Your own squadron.
And now they follow you like shadows.
Five Titans, falling in behind your Burnout like pieces of a living weapon.
Your HUD pings again.
Two dozen Imperiax units, basic models, moving to flank the Accord main line.
"Nicholas."
He looks. Grins.
"Target practice?"
"Something like that. Titan Squadron-rally on me."
Your hands glide through the pre-combat checklist. Burnout''s plasma cutter hums as its linkages glow green. The sword slots into the armature''s right arm; its blue flame ignites-a glowing lance of fury. You sweep it through space, ready for blood.
You''ve modified your Burnout heavily. Enhanced proximity sensors, doubled range, sixfold resolution. You always see them before they see you.
You move. The others follow.
"This is Titan Lead. Ready for battle."
"Titan Two-loaded and lethal," Nicholas replies, voice smug.
One by one, your squad reports in. They''re good. Maybe too good. They''ve learned to fight like you. That''s the problem. They''ve also learned your flaws.
Titan Squadron. A name you chose yourself.
"Alright Titans, form up. Let''s go hunting."
They fall into position with fluid grace.
You contact Aegis Prime, the Accord''s state-of-the-art warship.
"This is Titan Lead. Requesting permission to engage contacts Delta-Five-Two."
"Granted. Good hunting," comes the brusque reply from Captain Frank Gilak-a brilliant tactician and a man with all the warmth of a cold blade.
You gun the thrusters.
As you close in, your mind sharpens. The Imperiax formation is textbook-heavies up front, lighter units at the rear for suppressing fire. You spot a weakness.
"They''ll try to box us in," you call over the channel. "We hit them hard, head-on. Titan 4 and 6-flank and strike from behind. The rest, Armageddon Formation. Heavy fire. Let''s carve a path. Do you copy?"
"Sir, yes sir!" Nicholas barks, louder than the rest.
"Then let''s give them hell!"
Your war cry tears across the comms channel, raw and electric, shaking loose the last remaining threads of hesitation from your squadron. It''s a primal sound¡ªpart command, part challenge¡ªsomething that bypasses language and drills itself into the bloodstream. Behind you, your squadron answers as one, a chorus of fury and courage that echoes into the void.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Then you charge.
Your UMP-Burnout screams forward, cutting through the vacuum with a trail of blue-hot contrails, thrusters at maximum burn. The battlefield ahead is a kaleidoscope of fury¡ªplasma bolts lance out from the Imperiax line, painting the stars with streaks of cyan and red. The very space between you and your enemy ignites with the fury of a thousand energy discharges. To any lesser pilot, it would be a death sentence.
To you¡ªit''s a dance.
You twist and roll with impossible precision, the Burnout pivoting through narrow kill-lanes no larger than the width of a hull. Plasma bolts zip past your cockpit like tracer fire, some grazing your hull and lighting up your shields in golden flares. Your HUD blossoms with alerts, each swiftly cleared by deft flicks of your eyes and thoughts.
One bolt streaks past close enough to leave your cockpit awash in white light. You don''t blink. You don''t flinch. You ride the burn forward.
Titan Five isn''t as fortunate. A bolt of concentrated plasma slams into her right shoulder, knocking her armature into a wild spin. You catch it out of the corner of your eye.
"Five, status?"
"I''m hit¡ªbut systems are green. I''m still in this!"
Your lips twitch into a grim smile. "Then stay on me."
The enemy formation looms ahead. Dozens of Imperiaxes, primitive but rugged, blocky frames bristling with outdated but still lethal weaponry. They open fire in unison, a wall of light and fury.
It doesn''t matter.
You cut in.
With a scream of thrusters, you surge forward, plasma blade igniting in a blast of burning sapphire. The blade hums like a living thing, fire made solid, and you drive it straight into the heart of the lead Imperiax. It doesn''t even have time to react. One smooth thrust punches through its chest cavity, and then you twist¡ªslicing upward and carving the machine in half from gut to skull. The halves spiral away, already slag.
Before its neighbors can respond, you spin on your heel and dash toward the next. A backhand slash severs its weapon arm, then a stab into the cockpit finishes the job. The third turns to flee¡ªyou let it, only to fire your secondary thrusters and intercept, driving your plasma blade through its back like a glowing spear.
They begin to panic.
That''s when Titan Four and Six strike.
They descend like shadows from above and below, perfectly synchronized. Plasma fire erupts from their cannons, cutting down two Imperiaxes instantly. Four lands hard, dragging his twin axes through enemy chassis with brutal efficiency. Six darts between them, his thinner frame weaving and stabbing like a serpent. The rear-guard folds in seconds. The Imperiaxes are staggered, disoriented¡ªcaught between the anvil of your vanguard and the hammer of your flanking pair.
You should be celebrating.
But instead, your upgraded sensors chime in warning.
They''re adapting.
You see it even before your team does. The Imperiaxes aren''t fleeing anymore¡ªthey''re repositioning. Regaining cohesion. Their commander must''ve recognized the pincer attack. Units surge from the flanks, and heavier models¡ªbulkier, painted black with crimson helix insignias¡ªmove to intercept.
"Brace! Reinforcements inbound!" you bark.
Then the real battle begins.
Two enemy units try to double-team you from the left. You flare your maneuvering thrusters, kicking into a sideways drift. Your blade lashes out in a brilliant slash that disarms one¡ªliterally¡ªand cleaves into the second''s power core, sending it spiraling away in a flare of light.
All around you, Titan Squadron engages in a brutal melee. Titan Three vaults over a collapsing enemy, raining down plasma fire from his shoulder cannons. Titan Five, despite her earlier hit, charges through a trio of Imperiaxes, her reinforced shoulder ramming one clean off its axis. Draskoven¡ªTitan Two¡ªmoves with absolute grace, his heavy blasters shooting through the void as he lands lethal shots, while over-committing to the fray front.
"Titan Six, watch your six!" you bark, as you finish off your sixth Imperiax by ripping out their damaged power core.
"Already on it!" she calls, spinning just in time to decapitate an incoming unit with a clean swipe.
A hulking variant¡ªan Imperiax-727 "Reaver" unit¡ªlunges toward you, its arms crackling with pulse shock-claws. It''s fast, far too fast for its weight class. You parry the first swing, your blade locking against its crackling claws, the clash sending arcs of energy dancing across both armatures. You roll aside, jetting under its follow-up strike, and drive your blade upward through its chest from below.
It convulses. You wrench your weapon free, and the Reaver goes still.
Your HUD is alive with data¡ªenemy signatures blinking red, ally vitals flashing green and yellow. You scan for the command unit¡ªthere.
And then you see it-disaster looming.
Titan Two is in trouble. An Imperial commander-modified frame, crystalline rapier-bearing down on Nicholas, who''s too busy dealing with another target.
"Titan-Two, acknowledge!"
No answer.
"Nicholas!"
Still nothing.
"Titan Squadron¡ªfull assault! Break the remaining! I shall go assist Titan Two!"
You don''t wait for a response. You boost. Hard. A red flare ignites behind you as you slam into the Imperial mid-strike.
You cling to it, cannons unleashing hell point-blank. Nicholas finishes his target and joins the brawl.
The commander shoves you off like you weigh nothing. You stabilize mid-spin. Nicholas raises his monosaber.
"Two-on-one, boss-man," Nicholas growls through comms, his voice crackling with anticipation. "Let''s dance."
Your gaze locks on the approaching commander¡ªa towering warframe of obsidian alloy, wielding a crystalline rapier that hums with arclight energy. His movements are unnervingly fluid, with no wasted motion.
"He''s got reach," you mutter. "We disarm him first."
Without warning, you fire¡ªa tight spread of plasma bolts and kinetic rounds. Some find their mark, gouging glowing furrows across his chassis. Others glance off, ricocheting into the void. It doesn''t matter. You''ve got what you wanted:
His attention.
He lunges, the void warping around his thrusters as he closes the distance in a blink. His rapier pierces straight through your left shoulder, plunging into your mech''s core plating. Alarms howl. Shields collapse. You don''t flinch.
You wanted this.
The blade lodges deep.
Your mech''s left arm¡ªmangled and sparking¡ªsnaps shut around the weapon''s hilt. Magnetic clamps seal in tandem with a surge of localized antimatter containment, locking the blade in place like an anchor in a dying star.
"Now!" you bark.
Your thrusters ignite¡ªflaring blue-white as you twist, hurling the enemy like a ragdoll. The commander''s bulk becomes a pendulum, his own inertia used against him. You swing him hard into Nicholas''s path.
Titan Two doesn''t hesitate. He slams a massive armored fist into the enemy''s helm with enough force to crater the plating, and in one fluid motion, his heated monosaber cleaves through the trapped rapier''s linkage.
Sparks explode in a burst of blinding white.
The commander spirals out of control, free-floating and off-balance.
You cover the void in between you both and pounce on the enemy with all your machine''s might.
Your claws¡ªrazor-edged manipulators forged for this kind of close-quarters brutality¡ªrip into his chest plate, peeling away layers of carbon-titanium like paper. Sparks and oil spray outward. Wires twitch like severed veins.
You drag him into a headlock, your arm crushing around the base of his neck like a hydraulic vise.
Across the channel, Nicholas''s systems howl with energy. His frame glows¡ªa violent crucible of power. Plasma cannons spool. Necroa blasters charge with a sickly green pulse. Antimatter launchers lock on. A fitting display of might deadly power for the tank unit of your squadron.
"DIE, YOU IMPERIAL BASTARD!" he roars, and then he fires.
Hell descends.
The void becomes fire¡ªwrithing beams of solar plasma, bolts of corroding necroa energy, and antimatter warheads that explode in micro-novas. You feel every blast slam into you¡ªyour plating superheating, joints straining under the pressure, cockpit rattling so hard you can taste blood.
You hold your grip.
Every instinct screams to move, to let go, but you refuse. You brace yourself like a wall between the universe and the kill.
Then¡ª
"THAT''S ENOUGH, TITAN TWO! STAND DOWN!" you shout, voice strained.
But the barrage continues.
The heat rises beyond safe limits. Your vision blurs. Your hands white-knuckle the controls. Hull integrity hits 23%.
"DRASKOVEN! STAND THE HELL DOWN!"
A final warhead detonates.
Then¡ªsilence.
Your HUD flickers. The void cools. Debris drifts off your seared armor like mist.
You loosen your grip.
The enemy commander''s mecha¡ªwhat remains of him¡ªis slagged and crackling with a faded glow of energy surge, barely clinging to cohesion. You haul his limp frame up by the neck. His core¡ªa flickering sun behind ruined chest plating¡ªpulses in labored throbs.
Without ceremony, you hurl him into the abyss.
He tumbles weightlessly for a second, silhouetted against the stars¡ªthen his core implodes, collapsing inward with a sharp pulse of white-gold light.
A ripple tears across space.
Then¡ªnothing.
Nicholas whistles.
"Now that''s what I call-"
"GROSS INSUBORDINATION."
Your voice stops him cold.
"You broke formation. You compromised the plan. You ignored direct orders. One more stunt like this and I will personally end your career. Am I clear?"
Silence.
"Am I clear, Second-in-Command?"
"...Yes, sir."
You don''t need to see his face to feel the contempt.
You sigh. Your comms flicker. Sensors sweep.
Nothing.
"Titan Squadron, confirm. Any hostiles left?"
Negative. One by one, the replies come.
Titan-Six adds, "I got one."
Titan-Three chimes in, "Me too!"
"I got five," Nicholas says, smug. "You, boss?"
You think. "Seven. Maybe eight. I''ll check the footage."
He doesn''t like that. Someday, he''ll want to outscore you.
Titan-Five enquires, "Permission to state what''s on my mind, commander?"
"Granted", you reply as your machine''s head cocks and turns to your own inquisitive movement.
"We were heavily outnumbered. We fought well and decisively, but they had the numerical advantage of running us over. And yet, it seems as if they just-"
"Disappeared. I know. I noticed it too." you complete her shared sentiment.
Then comes a comm-line ping.
Aegis Prime.
Gilak''s face appears.
"Status report."
"Enemy engaged. No losses-though-"
"Let me guess: they disappeared?"
You nod.
"We tracked survivors," Gilak says. "They linked with another squadron and dropped planet-side. High-priority objective. You''re going after them. Sending coordinates."
You scan the data. Civilian district. No military targets for kilometres.
"Sir... what are we walking into?"
"You''re not cleared to know," Frank replies. "Even I''m not," he adds. "Just complete the mission. Aegis Prime out."
The line goes dead.
"New orders," you reply. "Prep for re-entry. Sending coordinates."
Nicholas leans in. "More fighting?"
"I hope not," you mutter. "I''ve spilled enough blood today."
Nicholas grins. "I could stand to spill a little more."
Titan Three looks downright disgusted at Nicholas''s bloodlust, while Titan Five mutters a curse. Some hesitate. Others steel themselves.
"Titan Squadron. Prep for drop. On my mark."
One by one, the members of your squadron report themselves ready for atmospheric drop. Your main display shuts off, obscured by the layer of ablative heat gel which will protect your combat armature from the heat of re-entry. You position your machine over the drop coordinates, flying on sensors alone.
"Commencing re-entry," you announce. "Titan Squadron, follow me in."
With that, you and your squadron begin the blind descent into Alanian Zeta''s atmosphere-into cloud and flame-toward whatever waits below.